


Opia

by silvered_glass



Series: Headless Peacocks [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: But also, Dark Mark, M/M, Opia, Requited Crush, Unrequited Crush, drarry drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-19 02:12:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11303613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvered_glass/pseuds/silvered_glass
Summary: The Goblin and Ministry of Magic Repair and Improve Relations Committee (G.M.M.R.I.C) has just launched it's research paper and had the first motion which will lead to allowing Goblins to carry wands accepted by the Wizengamot.Draco Malfoy has just completed his active community service.He's leaving for Cardiff in ten days. Potter keeps looking it him. Draco can't meet his eyes.





	Opia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [synonym4life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/synonym4life/gifts).



> This is from a prompt from the lovely Synonym (synonym-for-life.tumblr) to write something inspired from the list of emotions people feel but can't explain. They gave me 1) Opia: The ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable. 
> 
> It made me think of these boys and I wondered how it had started between them - how had they slipped into each other's orbit again..

 

The wine is sweet and should be served after food. Not before. But Draco takes another sip regardless. He’s drinking it maybe a little too fast. Cloying and uneasy.

The wine. The room.

An older witch wearing a high necked puce coloured robe and far too much colour on her cheeks holds a looking glass up to her eye and inspects him unapologetically. Draco wishes he could just lean against the nearest column, silently slide his body around it until he was facing towards the doors leading out to the terrace and then make a swift run for it.

Instead he stands with his back straight and pretends he doesn’t see her, seeing him.

The wine really is terrible.

“You’ll need to start going up to the front Draco.” Pansy says as she sidles up next to him. She stays facing the room. Her eyes ever moving. She has a glass of champagne. Draco would bet ten galleons it’s crisp and dry.

“After I get the award I can leave?”

“Mmhmm.” Pansy hums as she smiles, closed lipped, in the direction of a plump older wizard.

“Can I have your drink?”

“No! I had to flirt with some boy tending the bar who’s barely out of Hogwarts for this. That wine tastes like horse pis ..” She breaks off, the wizard has cycled back closer to them this time. Pansy’s voice is honeyed and even Draco would be hard pressed to hear it as false, “Why if it isn’t the Honourable Gavin Pondliver, what a delight to see you!”

Shouldn’t get to have a title if your name is Gavin, or Pondliver for that matter, Draco thinks as he tosses down the rest of his glass. He nods at the wizard and brushes his hand across the low curve of Pansy’s back by way of silent farewell.

She grabs his arm as he moves by, clutching at his sleeve and then her cool, small hand squeezes his own before she lets him go.

 

They are corralled in a small group behind a huge garish vase, out the top of which is spurting some overwrought arrangement in equally loud colours and some large leaves that Draco thinks may have mouths. The vases themselves are as tall as Potter.

“Draco! Been looking for you, well was about to. Anyway, doesn’t matter. Good.” Potter says nonsensically, almost nervously, but politely, bordering on chummy. The way he’s been towards Draco since about the second month after they both found themselves, for very different reasons, put on this damn committee together. Ever since that first tediously slow moving consultative week with the goblin council, in of all places Blackpool, and they all got thoroughly sloshed together the final night. Ever since then Potter has been decidedly chummy.

“Good Evening Potter.”

He looks lovely. He’s trimmed his beard back a little, styled his hair a little off his forehead. His eyes are clear and bright and open and Draco finds himself a little too still for a moment.

It was during the third month, after the working committee meetings second round, in of all places Skegness, that Draco realised with a sickening feeling, while watching Potter get decidedly annoyed and sarcastic to the point of almost rudeness with the secondary goblin negotiator, that he had a full-blown _thing_ for the man.

He swallows.

“Have you had any of the white wine, it’s Hogs Head level of awful.” Potter is grinning, hasn’t looked away.

“Yes,” Draco finds himself murmuring, “I can only presume they swapped the dessert with the pre-dinner option, although Mother would have always served champagne until guests were seated.” He feels a little detached, as if he can’t fully concentrate on the conversation.

Oh but it’s wonderfully nice but also the most torturous minutes of whatever day-of-the-week it is when Potter does this.

Speaks to him. Looks at him. Draco can never look back properly. As if any attention would expose how much attention he wishes he could pay Potter.

“I saw Hermione with a glass of champagne actually, no idea where she got it.” Potter continues, his eyes are warm, “but some of the students who did her work experience program for MLE last year are on the bar tonight maybe that’s it.” And then finally he looks away.

For a moment. Draco shuts his eyes. He feels like he can see fireflies on his eyelids. He slips his finger into the gap between his top shirt button and his neck.

There is a hand on his elbow and when he looks down Potter is studying him. The left side of his mouth turns upwards just slightly and he squeezes at Draco’s elbow, “Come on.”

His poor robes. They are new, in the short half cloak style and a lovely blue-grey fine wool. And they will be badly crumpled if people keep pawing at him he thinks as he follows Potter up the few stairs to the platform.

 

x

 

Ronald Weasley has stood up, he’s still talking – loudly. Still gesticulating - wildly, and with a half full pint of ale in his hand as well. Luckily he's across the other side of the table.

Draco is slotted tightly into a booth with Potter on his right and Pansy on the other side.

Pansy wasn’t even on the damn committee. But somehow had been a ringleader in the _‘Escape the Gala Early and Knock-on to a Pub That Serves Something That Isn’t This Disgusting Wine_ ’ plan. Weasley had spent more time trying to explain the plan’s acronym then the plan itself, instead Pansy swept by and gathered them both up. Draco had no say in it, and now she hasn’t said a word to him since they got to the damned pub. All because apparently, Ginny Weasley is the most fascinating person to ever steal a stick of olives out of Pansy’s martini glass.

Which so far has remained an actual thing that happened and not tortured sexual metaphor. However, the way Pansy is sitting, all leant over, gown strap slipping from her shoulder, Draco is unsure how long that will stay true for.

Potter’s leg is warm against his and every so often his elbow knocks against Draco’s. For a few minutes, their forearms rested next each other. Potter has long since dispensed of his formal robe and has rolled his sleeves up, his skin it’s familiar brown with an occasional on-their-way-towards-fading scar and the old watch he wears on his left wrist. Draco has kept his own sleeves with their little dragon-headed cuff links done up. Because of what he wears on his left arm.

Draco has often looked at Potter’s arms in long committee meetings. They are not meaty, but a nice toned shape. He likes to watch the way the tendons in them flex as Potter plays with the Muggle pens he insists on using.

He won’t have the chance to do that anymore.

Draco finishes his off his pale ale. He should go. He’s getting to be maudlin. Potter has spent the past thirty minutes talking to Lee Jordan about Quidditch. But that’s not why.

Well not fully.

Draco pinches gently at Pansy’s waist, “Scoot out.” He whispers.

She doesn’t even look at him. Slides along and stands up right in front of Ginny Weasley who’s sitting in one of the single seats on the open side of the table and seems utterly unperturbed by Pansy being right in her space like that. Instead merely puts her hand up against Pansy’s waist to sort of keep her there until Draco is out of the way and Pansy can sit down again.

Draco has gone to the bathroom just to have something to do.

He looks at himself in the mirror for a time. His cheeks seem to have been unable to lose the flush from the heat in the ball room before the speeches. He undoes his top button. And then another one. Runs some water and pats the back of his neck with his wet finger tips. His hair is getting long.

He can slip away. Pansy won’t mind. No one will notice. He pulls out the cuff links, little dragon heads snuffling indignantly at being disturbed. He feels happy he did not go for the ‘ _With Fire’_ added option the jeweller had offered. He pushes the loose cuffs up his arms and lets the water run over his wrists.

 

When he comes out of the bathroom he walks straight towards the door. A voice calls his name, not from the large table that the group are all sitting at, but from a small table by the bar.

Potter. Sitting on a bar stool, body turned towards him, legs open. Draco could step between them.

He doesn’t.

“Sit down, I got us a drink, do you like Ogdens? It was that or something I think he called Oftens, which I get the feeling maybe Tom brews down in the cellar himself.” Potter’s smiling, half up out of the stool and looking at Draco again. Looking.

There’s nothing he can do. “Oh. Yes. Thank you.” Draco mutters and climbs onto the stool across from Potter. The table is tiny. Potter is leaning across it holding his lightly steaming glass up waiting for Draco.

“Cheers.” Draco manages to look up at Potter when he says the word. But for once he’s not intently looking back.

Potter’s looking at his wrist. Cuffs hanging wildly open and forearm displayed. Draco feels his pulse jump and his stomach twist in a sick little way. He sips the Firewhiskey quickly and turns his arm over, flat on the table top.

“So, when do you start the course? Two weeks I think you said?” Potter asks, his tone the same as ever.

“Yes, I’ll go to Cardiff in ten days, get settled in then I start the apprenticeship on the following Monday, after the full moon.”

“I’ve never been to Wales, how close to Cardiff is the dragon reserve do you know?” And Potter’s back to looking again. His hair is a bit more mussed up by this stage of the evening, his eyes maybe a little sleepier, maybe a little heavier with drink. But he meets Draco’s gaze and he doesn’t let go.

 

Potter doesn’t flick his eyes back to the group when a roar of laughter breaks out loudly. He doesn’t turn to wave when Ginny calls out goodbye, Pansy echoing. He doesn’t look away even as Draco feels his fingers, warm and finger tips a little rough, very gently touch the top of Draco’s hand.

And for once, Draco doesn’t look away either.

He feels Potter’s interested, sometimes searching, sometimes placid gaze crawl across his skin. An itch that spreads from his face, to his chest, to all over his body. It is disconcerting - it always is, and yet he finds solace in it more than anything. It’s an indulgence. Potter’s attention. And steadfastly looking back at him is odd. It’s hard to do. Draco is annoyed at his own silliness, his over-reaction. But his heart picks up pace regardless. He sips his drink, but he keeps his eyes on Potter as well.

Potter says something about a place called Barry Island. And slips his thumb under Draco’s palm, pulling his arm a little towards him. He asks Draco if he has ever driven a dodgem car as he turns Draco’s hand over. He laughs with Draco, his eyes crinkling at the corners but unwavering as Draco makes a joke about having a member of staff to do that for him whatever it is, and then asking what it is.

They stay that way. Draco learns what a fairground is while Potter brings his other hand up and runs his fingers - so gently - up the either side of Draco’s hand. Potter’s thumbs skimming over Draco’s palm. Draco asks in horrified tones if fairy floss hurts the fairies while Potter first folds over the cuff of Draco’s shirt.

Potter says the words ‘spun sugar’ while Draco lifts his arm up a little, allowing Potter to make the next fold.

Still they just look at each other. Fixed. Blinking. In Draco's case eyebrows raising sardonically when needed. Neither ever acknowledging Potter’s busy hands. Draco takes another sip of his drink just to feel something else burning that isn’t Potter’s damn eyes.

Then the words stop. Potter has folded the material up to Draco’s elbow and he pauses, then slowly, deliberately, moves his fingers down his arm. Potter’s thumbs rubbing small circular motions over Draco’s skin and sinew and shame and the delicate bones of his wrist.

Draco can’t move. He might cry. He might tell Potter everything he feels. How he thinks of him, feels for him. How Draco is afraid. How right now it feels as if there’s never been a moment he hasn’t been afraid; Of his father, of his peer-group and the machinations of it even as a child, of failing at school, of failing his father, of Dumbledore, of The Dark Lord. Of himself. Of how he’s started no less than seventy owls to Katie Bell that he’s never sent. How he has lived for the work they’ve all been doing. How community service has ended up being both the most tedious boring thing but also the best thing that ever happened to him. How when they all went to that Kestrels v Harpies match and Harry hugged him when the Kestrels seeker finally grabbed the snitch over two hours in, how then something solid slotted into place in his mind and that of all his schemes and hopes and day-dreams and plans, have never been more high-aimed and ridiculous. And they have nothing to do with Cardiff, or his course or potions at all. Because they are him.

His day-dream, his fear, his solace. It’s him and his dumb carefully attentive eyes.

Instead of saying any of that, Draco mutters, “Stop looking at me.”

Potter doesn’t.

He does stop touching him. He leans back a little, has a drink.

Draco chances a look down at his arm. His cuff is a messy roll of material and his skin is pale. The mark a faded twist of mottled black. He looks back at Potter.

A year and a half in Wales. Not much time for holidays. Potions don’t brew to a standard wizarding working week. He can’t imagine not burning from having Potter’s eyes on him for that long.  He can’t imagine not challenging himself to stop being so damn afraid to look directly back at this man for that long.

His heart is in his mouth. His stomach a mess of nerves. 

“Do you want to come and visit me in Cardiff Harry?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

I'm on tumblr [here](https://silveredglass.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to chat.         ....         (I cannot work out how to link in notes, I am v bad at html. Sorry!)


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